


bring down the sky

by 10redplums



Series: planes campaign fic [7]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Fealty, M/M, canon-typical fighting gods
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28733235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/10redplums/pseuds/10redplums
Summary: Amidst his work as the organization's silver-tongued second-in-command, Traine finds a quiet moment.
Series: planes campaign fic [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044054
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	bring down the sky

_ They tell you to stoke the fires of ambition, to dream of reaching the stars, yet we have seen friends and lovers crushed for daring to raise our eyes too high. Too many of us have been the ant under that boot.  _

Too much fervor? Too personal? Too much highbrow language?

_ The gods sit on their thrones, heedless of the plights of mortals until- only heedless until- turned away only until someone dares touch the doors of their hallowed halls- _

Traine puts the pen in the stand and leans back, digging the heels of his hands into his aching eyes.

_ The gods are cold and unforgiving and demand sacrifices of them all, and they take and they take and they take until nothing is left and demand yet more and punish you for what you cannot give. _ He pushes away from the table and paces the room, shaking his cramping hand and wishing he’d deigned to learn any healing magic at all. Trickery doesn’t work when you’re too smart for your own lies.

He paces, the words floating from his mouth as he tries to exorcise them from his whirling head, and then he pauses in front of the mirror Joan had gifted him. 

He looks and waves a hand over his face; there the father he made forget, there the mother he hid away. There the sister he lost. He waves the illusions away and turns from the mirror, not wanting to see his sister sneer or snarl at him, and goes back to the table.

The work is too important; they have a world to free from the shackles of the gods and there is still so much to be done. He needs to do his part. He can’t falter, can’t stop; he’s given up too much. There’s too much blood on his hands.

_The gods demand everything of us and give nothing in return, and destroy us for turning to those who_ _would_ _appreciate our efforts. Would you fault the plant for turning to the sun, the desert for slaking its thirst,_

“Are you still working on that?”

Traine looks up; Joan is leaning on the doorjamb, arms folded. He looks back; tapping the pen has left little dots all over the place and he sighs and puts the pen away. And then startles; Joan’s come up behind him and put his chin on Traine’s shoulder. Puts his hands over Traine’s ink-stained ones and gently rubs with his thumb, and sighs.

“Come away,” Joan says, and Traine sighs too. Comes away.

Joan moves to sit on the bed and Traine follows, rolling his shoulders and wincing at the pops of his spine. At Joan’s gesture he kneels at his feet and allows Joan to put his hands on him, groaning softly as Joan works the kinks out of his shoulders with strong, firm, sure fingers. Joan’s hair is a dark curtain around him, hiding him from the world, as Joan presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“My glorious Traine,” Joan says. “My beloved right hand.”

Joan gets all the knots out and pulls back to let Traine stand, and at Traine’s urging he sheds his shirt and lies back on the bed. His body is lean and tanned and scarred and he echoes Traine’s earlier appreciative groan as Traine digs his own fingers into his back and does his best. Moves Joan’s hair aside into a neat rope over one shoulder. Traces his fingertips with a feather-light touch over the scars.

He fills his pamphlets with talk of revolution, of better lives, of the tyranny of the gods. Here is the sight he knows would sway even the hardest of hearts: Joan, exposed and vulnerable and trusting Traine with his softness even after all the suffering he’d gone through. Here is the one thing he’ll never allow himself to use. 

He presses a chaste kiss to the puckered scar on the shoulder of his liege and feels the warm skin shift under his lips. Here is the only lord he gave everything for, lost everything for, will storm the gates of heaven for.

They’ll build a better world together. He believes it. He has to believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> the title of this work was nearly "you are not immune to fantasy propaganda". runners up were “you can pry the semicolon from my cold fingers” and, with all the armand fics and then this, “I’m going to mine my weird relationship with religion for content”


End file.
